


History

by Yeomanrand



Series: Love and Loss [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Community: where_no_woman, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winona and Jim both come home after the Battle of Vulcan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final part of the [Love and Loss](http://archiveofourown.org/series/2817) series I didn't know I was starting with [Howling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/63478). The opening quotation is from [Babylon 5](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babylon_5). I don't think anything here will be triggery. Beta by [](http://shinychimera.livejournal.com/profile)[**shinychimera**](http://shinychimera.livejournal.com/)

_"So, how does it feel to make history?"  
"You do not make history. You can only hope to survive it."_

 

The invitation had not come from Jim, Winona knows. Someone higher up, probably in Starfleet PR, had arranged for her return to the Academy, wanting images of the two of them together; the brave widow and her hero son who had slain the father's slayer.

Naturally, and more to the point, intentionally, she arrives to the ceremony late. She conceded to their wish that she wear her dress uniform only because she knows it will keep her from standing out, from drawing attention she doesn't want, hasn't wanted, never wants again. She will attend the reception because she is expected to, but even without pins and needles in her feet she will be uncomfortable at the gathering. Like the homecoming of the _Kelvin_'s orphaned crew, tonight should be more memorial than celebration.

She slips into the back of the full hall and watches Chris Pike instead of her son, afraid if Jim feels her eyes on him he'll know she's there.

Afraid if she looks at Jim, she will have to go to him, but the things they need from each other -- to say, to hear, to _know_ \-- are best kept private, a secret between the two of them like the howling moon.

She'd been on the _Yorktown_ when it had all gone down, in the Laurentian system with the rest of the fleet, and only the fact that the _Enterprise_ had to limp back to earth after blowing her warp cores, and that her entire crew had to endure a relentlessly thorough debriefing after, had allowed them to bring Winona back to Earth in time.

Jim had managed to send her a brief burst message, sneaking directly onto her comm from the underbelly of the ship-to-ship system (and she wants to ask him how he'd pulled that off, too, when she has a chance).

_Mom,_ he'd said, a little breathlessly -- knowing what she knows now, more than a little rushed, _I'm okay. You're going to hear a lot of stuff, and only some of it's going to be true. But we got the bastard that killed Dad._

Jim was _alive_; the horrific reports out of Vulcan had just been starting to come through, barely more than ship scuttlebutt, when she'd gotten the message. Shocks, one after another -- that Jim was in space at all, that the black ship had returned and been destroyed, that it had done so much damage along the way -- but she held on to the fact that Jim had survived.

The rage, the fear -- the desire to lock herself away somewhere and scream herself raw -- those feelings had come later.

She lets her gaze roam the room when Jim walks over to Pike, hears the falseness in "I am relieved" and the bittersweet conviction in "your father would be proud" while she's figuring out by their reactions which of the remaining cadets served with Jim. The tall, dark-haired man whose face she can see in profile, his eyes fixed on Jim and his expression some strange mix of pride and grief. The ramrod-straight young Vulcan officer, expressing more than he knows in the calligraphic line of his lowered chin. The young woman in red next to him, the way their hands -- warm brown and cool olive -- arch toward each other but don't quite touch. The curly-haired boy whose narrow shoulders straighten just a little when Jim turns to face the audience.

He's not her little boy anymore, hasn't been for years, but the point is driven home when his fierce blue eyes sweep the assembly. His gaze pauses for a moment on the cadets she'd picked out, before continuing on, but in that moment she sees the shadow behind his proud smile, knows his doubts, his awareness of the hard row ahead.

Winona takes a half-step backward, into the shadow cast by the Rigelian standing next to her, drowning in her own well of _if–might have–should have–can't_; love and pride and fear and sorrow so intermixed their flavors will never again be pure.

She slips out of the hall just before things begin to break up, blends herself into the crowd milling about in the quad, waiting for the hall to be re-opened for the inevitable reception. She makes polite conversation with two young Lieutenants who do not recognize her; listening to their theories while keeping one eye on the entrance to the hall.

A gentle hand on her upper arm startles her, but she manages to suppress the jump. Her companions have fallen silent; she recognizes a hint of hero worship in the way they look at the man standing beside her. Not Jim, of course, but the dark-haired man who'd been watching him so intently during the ceremony; up close, she can see he's a little older than she'd thought, lines of care and worry already starting to etch the skin around bloodshot hazel eyes.

He introduces himself as Leonard McCoy and asks her to come with him; she recognizes the name from the handful of comms she'd gotten since Jim enlisted and nods, curious and hopeful. Her heart warms, a little, because she realizes that Jim has friends, that he hasn't inherited her solitary nature along with everything else. At first she thinks McCoy is leading her toward the dorms, but she gradually realizes they're taking a gentle arcing curve that will bring them back to the assembly hall's service entrance.

She's not really surprised when he leads her into a small conference room. Jim's back is to them; he stares out the window at the towers of the Golden Gate.

She wants to go to him. Something has nailed her feet to the floor.

McCoy slips out of the room behind her. She barely notices.

Jim turns his head to look at her, and though the darkness is writ large on his face, he gives her a tiny smile. It's enough to break the spell binding her; she moves around the table, reaches out to him.

They are not, have never been, a demonstrative family. But he buries his face in her shoulder and she wraps her arms around him, sighing his name; there are no words to describe her gratitude to have him real, solid, and alive beneath her hands. The fears that have been and will continue to be hidden beneath her skin give way to an aching relief that he has finally forgiven her enough to unbend, just a little.

She leans back against the table, still cradling him against her; looking out at the bridge still standing, the lights coming on against the falling twilight.

"Would he have been?" Jim finally asks; she knows he's thinking about Pike's parting words. She strokes her hands over his shoulders, considers her answer.

"Probably." Of course he would have been proud; but George is a ghost now and best laid to rest.

Jim's head moves, minutely; if she'd never done it herself she probably wouldn't know he was drying his eyes against her collarbone. But he shows no vulnerability when he pulls back, holding her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes for plain answers. She makes no effort to hide her own tears.

"Are you?"

The question sticks her breath in her throat at first; she nods, reaches up to touch his cheek -- when did he get so _tall?_ \-- finally finds the words.

"_Always_."


End file.
